


Shots

by TheGreatCatsby



Series: Before Your First Cup of Earl Grey [6]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, bond solves problems with alcohol, more drinking, more spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatCatsby/pseuds/TheGreatCatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond and Q infiltrate the home of a suspected German spy and end up as guests at his birthday party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shots

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt regarding a birthday party and vicious hangovers. I added the spies. 
> 
> I apologize for any typos. This was written on very little sleep.

Bond and Q are in London, infiltrating the office of a suspected German spy named Larson(“I didn’t even know Germans had spies anymore,” Q commented when they got the mission). Said spy was reported to have plans to gain access to MI6 in order to get information about important people in the British government, though to what end, no one was sure. 

This office actually was located in the basement of a rather nice home in Hampstead, and a large one at that. Q told Bond on the way that they should stop off at the home of Keats, the famous poet, while in the area, and Bond told him to shut up. Q decided to plot revenge. 

While they work in the basement, Bond serving as a guard and Q downloading information off the computer, someone enters the house. Which is exactly what they don’t want. Which is why both of them hide in the office closet after hurriedly turning off the computer. 

“This is ridiculous,” Q hisses, as Bond reaches for his gun. Above them, footsteps make their way across the floor. “Do all MI6 agents hide in the closet like children playing hide and seek?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bond snaps. “Children don’t use guns.” 

Q rolls his eyes, but they both fall silent as the footsteps make their way down the stairs, and a man enters the office. 

Larson is tall, and blond, and he sits down at his computer and Q holds back a noise of disappointment. All he wants to do is get back to MI6 with the information on his portable disk, but with Larson there they can’t move. Preferably, they would be able to get out without Larson knowing that he’s been compromised. This is looking less likely. 

Larson leaves after half an hour to go upstairs. Q checks his watch and says, “It’s almost dinner.” 

“Forget the dinner,” Bond says. “What’s that?” 

There’s a piece of paper, smallish, on the floor where a piece of paper wasn’t previously. Q gingerly opens the door to the closet and darts out, picks up the paper, and then darts back in. By the light of a small flashlight they read. 

“It’s an invitation,” Bond says, raising an eyebrow. “Larson’s birthday is today.” 

“Great, we’ve walked into the middle of a party,” Q says. “This will go well. We can tell him Happy Birthday before the shootout begins.” 

Bond palms the invitation. “He’s rich. It’ll be a large party.” He pockets it. “You know, Q, I think tonight’s the perfect night for a celebration.” 

Q narrows his eyes at Bond. “What are you on about?” 

“We’ll attend the party as guests, and sneak out.” 

Q stares at him. “They’ll know we don’t know them!” 

“Not if the party is big enough,” Bond says. “And if it isn’t, we’ll just wait till they’re all too drunk to stay awake and sneak out.” 

Q runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Fine,” he says, “but if this goes wrong we’re telling M it’s your fault.” 

 

As an agent, Bond has had his fair share of waiting to go with the action. Q, however, is less patient, clearly experiencing unrest at being separated from the technology he so loves. 

“You want me,” he whispers, as the sound of footfalls from upstairs grow louder as more and more people arrive, “to pretend to be someone named John Cavendish.”

“Yes,” Bond says. 

“And,” Q adds, “you want me to pretend to be from a wealthy family. You want me to blend in with these people. Do you realize that acting is not my strong point? Also, I’m dressed in a bloody jumper.” 

Q is wearing a dark jumper over his button-down shirt, which makes him look less rich and more like someone who’s spent too much time in a cold office. Bond shrugs. “It’s navy at least. That makes you look better than if you’d been wearing your awful orange cardigan.” He makes a face. 

Q glares at him. “It’s not orange,” he snaps. “And I quite like it.” 

“To each their own.”

The noise from upstairs is loud enough to be caused by dozens of people, and Bond murmurs, “I think it’s time.” 

He slowly makes his way out of the closet, and Q follows suit. 

 

They manage to leave the basement without being seen, and when they turn the corner into a brightly lit hallway full of people they are immediately accosted by a tall blonde woman wearing a blue gown. 

Q thinks that he may be slightly underdressed. 

“Good evening,” she cries, smile radiant on her pale face. “I haven’t said hello to either of you—you are?”

Bond picks up the slack. “Tim Smith, and this is my friend, John Cavendish. We met at one of the galas this past year, talked for quite a bit, the food was wonderful.” 

“Oh yes, I do remember,” the woman says. “Well, welcome, and I hope you have a good time. We have plenty of food and,” she winks, “even more drink.” 

She walks away, and Q looks at Bond. “I didn’t know it was that kind of party.” 

“What kind of party?” 

Q sighs. “I don’t know. But that was Larson’s wife.” 

“Yes.” Bond scans the crowd of people. Everyone is dressed up, and there are certainly plenty of drinks making the rounds. “I need a drink.” 

“We need to leave,” Q says. 

“If we leave it will look suspicious,” Bond tells him. “Besides, if we get Larson or his wife drunk, we may end up with more information. Perhaps even more than they’ve put on their computer.” 

“I’m sure everything important is on the computer,” Q says, but Bond is already heading for the drinks, through the crowd of people, and Q can do nothing but follow. 

As Bond hands him a glass of scotch, Q thinks that it will be a very long night. 

 

The rest of the evening sort of…melts away. 

Q remembers snippets. He remembers Bond swigging from a bottle of vodka. He remembers himself and a group of impeccably dressed people taking tequila shots, and Mrs. Larson in the background crying out, “Oh, I’m so happy everyone’s having fun!”

At some point a bottle of scotch got smashed against a wall, though Q doesn’t know who did it. He only knows that it wasn’t him. 

And through all of this Larson doesn’t bother to ask who Q and Bond are, which Q thinks is odd for a German spy. Then again, it’s a party, and at some point they all became too drunk to care. 

Bond ended up in a corner with Larson, talking. Q remembers this because they were playing some sort of drinking game. His memory shorts out after that. 

Which is why he doesn’t understand where he wakes up. He’s still in Larson’s house, on the floor, partially on top of Bond, who is also on the floor, and there are a few other people on the floor, and Larson is missing. 

Q attempts to sit up and the world spins, dangerously. For a moment he fears he’s going to be sick, and he closes his eyes and leans against the wall, taking deep breaths. Eventually the feeling passes, leaving behind a killer headache and regret. 

Next to him, Bond moans. 

Q pokes him in the side with his elbow, and Bond moans again. 

“What happened?” Q asks, which is code for, “I thought we were supposed to leave, not end up hungover on Larson’s floor.” 

Bond opens his eyes and grimaces, immediately closing them again. He looks terrible, and Q has a moment of satisfaction in knowing that he’s not the only one who can be affected by drinking too much. 

Still, he suspects that Bond remembers more than he does. After all, Bond drinks more than he does. And Bond is an agent. Bond is practiced. 

“You had fun,” Bond says after a moment, a hint of amusement coloring his words. 

Q feels as if the floor has dropped out from under him. “What do you mean?” 

Bond laughs. “There was a fine young woman you were intimate with for awhile—no worries, just kissing, I assure you, and she removed your jumper. And then you got tired and insisted on cuddling with me on the floor. You’re a very friendly drunk, Q.” 

Q feels his cheeks burning. “I don’t cuddle,” he snaps. “Where’s my jumper?” 

“No idea,” Bond says with a smirk. Q wants to smack him. “At any rate, we ought to get going.” 

“Are you leaving already?” a voice calls out from another room, high pitched enough to be like knives carving into Q’s skull. Seconds later Mrs. Larson appears, looking no worse for wear. She steps gingerly over the other party-goers and makes her way towards them. Bond and Q struggle to stand, using the wall as support, and Q thinks he might pass out. 

“Unfortunately we’re feeling the affects of last night and must take our leave,” Bond tells her. “Is Mr. Larson doing well?” 

Code for, “where the fuck is the person we were supposed to be gathering info on?” 

“I had to put him to bed, poor dear,” Mrs. Larson says. She smiles at them, and adds, “Would you like any breakfast?” 

Bond grimaces and Q feels ill. He just wants to go. His head throbs. 

“No thank you,” Bond says. “We should probably get going.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Q says, suddenly, and they both look at him. “I, uh, have some work to do.” 

“Alright, well I hope you get home safe.” Mrs. Larson kisses them both on each cheek and sends them on their way. 

Once outside, bright sunlight doing nothing to help the headache, Q hisses, “Bond, I am going to kill you. I will make all of your weapons backfire. I will make sure the enemy finds you-“

“It was a fun party,” Bond says, squinting into the sunlight. “And we found out about Larson.” 

“We could have left,” Q cries. “We didn’t need to be there for the party! Was this an excuse to get drunk?” 

“You needed a night out, Q, don’t deny it,” Bond says. “You were having fun, too.” 

Q glares at him. “I don’t even remember it.” 

Bond sighs and reaches into his pocket, handing a small USB drive to Q, who takes it. “Does this make it worth it?” 

“What is that?” 

“Got it off Larson at one point. With it, you should be able to hack into the German spy network.” 

Q’s eyes widen. “He told you that?”

“He showed me it, then put it away, saying it had very important information regarding the access to his, um, line of work,” Bond explains. Q still looks shocked, so he adds, “Happy Birthday.” 

“It’s not my birthday,” Q mutters, though he looks as though he’s suppressing a grin. Trust Bond to make a party useful. 

Later, Q would like to be sleeping off his hangover in his nice comfy bed, but curiosity gets the better of him, and he downs a few painkillers and drinks a good amount of water and sets to work analyzing Larson’s USB drive. Bond is right, and Q finds himself overjoyed at the prospect of having the keys to a German spy organization. He flexes his hands over his keyboard and thinks, this is going to be fun.

Happy Birthday, indeed.


End file.
